


Just Need A Light

by dandrogynous



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Shower Sharing, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 08:31:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandrogynous/pseuds/dandrogynous
Summary: “Cuddle me,” Phil says. Sleepy, petulant, drunk. Dan loves him.“Cuddle me, let's get drunk, stay longer in Florida or I’ll miss you,” he teases as he pulls his shirt up over his head. “You are so needy.” Phil makes a face at him without opening his eyes.





	Just Need A Light

**Author's Note:**

> uhhh wow florida was a lot huh! gremlins.
> 
> title from there for you by martin garrix and troye sivan
> 
> i'm dandrogynous on tumblr

Florida is exactly what Dan needed it to be - hot and sunny and removed, days and days of nothing stretching endlessly on and on. He swims for hours and walks for miles; he drinks lots of water and eats fresh fruit; he goes outside. His skin glows a little more golden and there are freckles across his cheeks and he can feel the difference in his body and his head.

The Lesters welcome him in like family as always but he feels it this time, somehow, more than he ever has before. Maybe it's the way he's settled into himself, lately. Maybe he's just old enough now to be less scared of the concept of family in general. Whatever it is, he’s glad. There’s been very little anxiety hacksawing away at his brain, the last few weeks. 

So - Florida is perfect. Yes. It is. It’s perfect and Phil is perfect and Dan is happy, truly, because he gets to do this and have this and live this life, with these people that he loves and who love him, too. It’s not what he expected in the details, growing up, but it’s what he's always wanted.

 

He sits alone on the plane back to London, staring at the stretch of stars outside his window. Frank Ocean croons softly in his ears - _Blonde_ on repeat, calming like nothing else, every note and beat a masterpiece Dan has memorised. Everyone around him is quiet, sleeping. This is the part of every flight that Dan likes best. Sometimes he falls asleep, but more often he sits and stares and sinks deep into his head and whatever album he’s chosen for the journey.

The flight is easy. It’s quick, Dan muses, compared to Japan or Australia or Singapore. He's flown this so many times that he's used to it, and when the plane touches down he almost wishes they were still up in the clouds, speeding towards someplace hot and remote and interesting instead of home.

Phil, half-asleep and slightly overwhelmed after customs and baggage claim and finding each other post-flight in the midst of the noise and chaos of Heathrow, accidentally gives the cab driver their old address. Neither of them notice until they're nearly there, autopilot taking over in the disorienting shuffle of morning. Their bodies are running five hours behind and it's too fucking awkward to say anything _now_ so they just climb out of the cab silently upon arrival, collect their shit from the boot, and stand angled towards each other on the side of the road next to their old front door.

“I -” Phil pauses to yawn. “Oh, god. I'm sorry. I didn't even think.”

Dan already has Uber up on his phone. He’s so fucking tired - he’d only slept two hours on the plane.

“It's fine,” he says. It really is. A car driven by someone called Tony is three minutes away, pulling round a corner onto their road. Phil leans forward and rests his head on Dan’s shoulder for a few seconds, then groans and stands up straight again.

“How long will it be,” he asks. A bus hisses to a stop across the road, an advert for Coke plastered across the side.

“Two minutes,” Dan tells him. Phil closes his eyes and tilts his head back and sighs heavily. Dan takes a step back so he's closer to their old building and tries to connect with the free wifi from the restaurant next door.

Tony arrives soon after in his black Ford and Dan pushes a drooping Phil forward to climb in first, then tugs their luggage closer.

“Morning,” Tony says, looking back at Dan through the open door.

“Morning,” Dan replies. He's so tired. He hates socialising. He’ll only do it for Phil. “Er, could you get the boot?”

Once they're on the road Dan relaxes, slumps down into his seat and stares blankly out of the window at the thick grey sky. Phil is snoring softly next to him, his head tilted back and his mouth hanging open. Headphones are tucked snugly over Dan’s ears, Bon Iver now, their new stuff, quiet and thoughtful and lonely in the best way. London never quite falls asleep but it's waking up fully now, cars honkng and kids in uniform shuffling to school and queues forming up in Costa and Starbucks. This isn't a time of day that Dan experiences very often, anymore. He doesn't miss it.

Tony drops them off at the kerb and Dan shuffles through his pockets for his keys. Phil is leaning half-asleep against their luggage, his whole body dragging itself towards the ground. The lobby of their building stretches for miles; the elevator takes years to arrive.

“Come on, old man,” Dan says, when they finally get to their floor, and unlocks the front door, and leads them both inside.

There are still boxes lined up on the stairs. The bedroom isn't quite finished and half of the lounge has yet to be unpacked. Dan is overwhelmed, momentarily, by the amount of work they have to do, but then he shakes his head vigorously - he’ll unpack another day, any day but this one - and makes his way up to the second floor. Phil follows slow and close behind.

“Want to shower?” Dan asks, pausing by the bathroom door.

Phil thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head. “Too tired. I’ll just brush my teeth.”

“I’m gonna have one,” Dan tells him. Phil grunts in agreement. “Go on before I start, then.”

Phil nods and stumbles blearily into the bathroom. Dan carries on down the hall, pushing open his bedroom door and letting their suitcases drop. He lays down on the bed without even bothering to turn on a light.

A few minutes later, Phil joins him, sprawling chest-first across the duvet.

“Done?” asks Dan. Phil makes a muffled noise that sounds vaguely affirmative. “Okay. I'll be back. D’you want a cup of tea after I’m finished?”

There is another muffled yes. Dan can't stop himself from smiling.

“Get on your side, man,” he says, and leaves before he does something stupid like crawl into bed and fall asleep right there.

The shower is big, in this building. The water pressure is amazing. Dan luxuriates in the steam and uses a face mask and conditions his hair. It’s so nice to shower in his own home.

He wants to put a bluetooth speaker in here. Maybe one of the ones with the suction cups on the back so they can keep it in the shower itself rather than on the windowsill or the edge of the sink. A bluetooth speaker and one of those aesthetic little pebbly water sculptures and maybe some kind of plant, sitting in the light that pours in through the window.

They have so much room, now, compared to their old flat. They have so much space to grow within, to personalise, to love. It isn't a forever home but Dan’s determined to make it beautiful for however long they live here. He always feels better, in his body and his head, in a space that's pretty and clean.

There is a knock on the bathroom door as Dan finishes rinsing Mask of Magnaminty off of his face. His skin is soft and zinging from the peppermint oil.

“Yeah?” he calls, his face still stuck directly under the showerhead. He hears the door open - when it closes again he peers out of the shower. Water clings to his eyelashes and makes everything blurry-edged, softer somehow. Phil smiles sheepishly at him.

“Changed my mind about a shower, can I get in?”

Dan waves him in vaguely and steps back under the water, rubbing slippery conditioner out of his hair and sighing against the heat on his back. He steps out of the way once the conditioner is gone, letting Phil under the spray.

Once upon a time they couldn't do this without jumping each other. But they're older now, and tired more often, and there's nothing particularly sexy anymore about seeing Phil naked and soapy and half-asleep without the proper context. So they just wash up and rinse and take turns under the water, and Dan gives Phil’s shoulders a gentle massage for a few minutes before he climbs out and leaves Phil to finish up on his own.

He doesn't even bother with a shirt, just tugs on a pair of cactus-patterned pants that are definitely Phil’s and goes to the kitchen to put the kettle on. They'd gotten everything in here unpacked and set up how they want it before they left, old clutter gotten rid of and new clutter already starting to sneak in at the edges. A photo from Miami in a fluorescent magnetised frame takes centre stage on the fridge - Phil must have put it there before he came into the bathroom. Dan leans against the counter and inhales deeply and closes his eyes. Morning light falls across the kitchen floor in pale slanting squares.

The kettle goes. Dan makes two cups of tea like it's muscle memory - three sugars no milk for Phil, two and one for him. At this point, he thinks, as he lifts both mugs and makes his way back to the bedroom, it probably is.

“I've got tea,” Dan says, pushing open the door with his butt and then closed again with his knee. Phil doesn't answer. Dan turns around. “Oh.”

Phil is sprawled across the bed, his towel on the floor, one sock on, fast asleep. Dan sets down the tea and picks up the towel.

“I do everything for you,” he says at Phil’s prostrate figure. Phil huffs out a breath into his pillow and shifts further onto Dan’s side of the bed. “You are such a dick.”

It's alright, though, he thinks, once the towel has been hung up and the tea has been poured down the sink. It's alright. Taking care of each other is what they do best. There's no one he’d rather waste a cup of tea on than Phil.

 

Phil’s favourite place in the new flat, for now, at least, is the balcony. He likes the sun, and the fresh air, and the birds twittering away. He sits out there and reads for hours and Dan watches him, sometimes, in the least creepy way possible.

It's nice to see Phil relax again, is all. The two of them have been going and going and going for what feels like years, and Dan thinks they deserve this. They deserve a bit of quiet. A bit of peace.

Everything has settled down since they came home from Florida. They're still busy, they're always busy, but now there are a few days each week without anything planned. Whole blocks of time absolutely unfilled. It's glorious. Dan spends all his time at home wearing only boxers and oversized jumpers, basking in the sudden onset of late-spring warmth. The sun is out more than it's been the rest of the year combined and it falls across the whole house through their wide windows, washing everything in bright warm summer light.

Phil is outside now, sunglasses on, his head tipped back towards the sky and sun cream smeared across his nose. Dan gets himself a glass of water, then pours a Ribena for Phil and joins him on the balcony.

“I am the best person in the world,” he says matter-of-factly, standing directly over Phil so his shadow lands on his face, “and you can't have this Ribena until you admit it.”

Behind his sunglasses, Phil’s eyes pop open. His face goes soft and happy as he reaches up to push the shades away.

“Ribena! You heard my telepathic communications.” He smiles brightly, tongue caught in his teeth. Dan raises his eyebrows, then grins a little.

“Was that what that was? No wonder I have a headache.”

Phil rolls his eyes fondly and sits up straighter, reaching out for the glass of Ribena. Dan pretends to consider for a moment, holding it out of reach. When Phil rolls his eyes and moves to stand up Dan grins and relents, bringing the cup back down so Phil can grab it and take a sip.

It's all so easy. No matter where they are, where they will be, where they've gone, it's always going to be easy like this.

“Watch something tonight?” Dan asks. He moves Phil’s legs aside and sits down on the edge of his lounge chair. Phil points at him.

“Yes. Nothing good though as I may fall asleep.”

“Nothing new there,” Dan informs him. Phil just rolls his eyes.

“You're mean, why do I put up with you?”

“You know exactly why.”

 

“I want to get drunk,” Phil decides, later that evening.

“Yes,” Dan agrees, and tucks away his phone.

There's two bottles of wine in the kitchen, a housewarming gift from Louise, who probably bought them with the intention of helping to drink them next time she comes round. Dan decides now is better than later and brings them both back into the lounge, where Phil is sprawled across the sofa with his glasses off and his phone just a few centimetres away from his face.

“You’ll break your eyes,” Dan says. He sits down and unscrews the cork from one of the bottles, then pours them both a glass. Phil crosses his eyes at him. “Charming. Okay. Top three celebrity husbands! Drink if any are the same,” he continues, and slides his glass over. “Mine's easy.”

Phil shakes his head, but takes the glass. “They won't be the same.”

“Then drink _anyway_ ,” Dan tells him, reaching forward and patting his cheek. “The game is get drunk and sex me later.”

“Is there a rule manual?”

Dan huffs and rolls his eyes just to make Phil laugh, then takes a long and pointed sip of wine. Phil’s eyes crinkle. He shakes his head fondly and takes a drink too, then shudders.

“I hate red wine.”

“Rosé man, yup, thought Louise would've known.” Dan shrugs. “Drink it anyway, though, we can't pour it back in and _you_ were the one who wanted to drink tonight.”

Phil makes a face but he drinks the wine, and so does Dan, his tongue furring up a little every time he takes a sip. It's gross but he likes it, likes the heavy warmth that pools right away in his bones. 

 

One glass turns to two, Netflix playing old episodes of Friends quietly in the background, Dan’s feet tucked under Phil’s thigh. Dan scrolls through house listings in Seattle and imagines a future there, vaguely, in his head. Every few minutes Phil turns his phone so Dan can see something new and amazing and entirely unnecessary on Firebox.

“We don't need a hippo-shaped bottle opener,” Dan says sternly, to Phil and also to himself. He pours them both more wine. The bottle is nearly empty, now. He’s glad there's another.

“Oh, but _Dan_ , look, you put the cap in its mouth,” Phil protests. He shakes his phone a little.

“You hate beer.”

“I hate _you_.”

Phil’s phone buzzes to life, suddenly, a Facetime request from Martyn appearing onscreen. Dan pushes away Phil’s wrist.

“Liar. Answer your phone.”

Phil hits accept. Martyn’s face pops up, Cornelia peering out from behind him.

“Hello!” she calls. She and Martyn both wave. “Long time no see.”

“Hi!” Phil says, and he and Dan both wave, too.

“There's a fox hanging out in our garden and we want to show you,” Cornelia continues.

“Also she got a haircut and wants compliments,” Martyn teases. She smacks his shoulder. Everyone laughs. Dan thinks that the four of them are a little unit, now, in a way that they weren't before Miami. Last year they spent a lot of time together as coworkers - this year, they’re all spending time together as family.

“You do look nice, Cornelia,” Phil says. Dan nods.

“Foxy,” he agrees, and Cornelia grins. Martyn throws his head back exaggeratedly and groans.

“There is more than one fox on this Facetime call,” Cornelia says, smirking. She attempts to flip her freshly-shorn hair, then takes the phone from Martyn and moves over to the window, switching to the back camera as she goes. “There she is! Can you see?”

Dan reaches forward and turns the brightness up. The image is grainy, then, but there - a fox sniffing at the base of a tree, at the edge of the pool of light spilling from Martyn and Cornelia’s window.

“Oh, wow,” Phil says. He turns and looks at Dan, wide-eyed. “I want a garden.”

“Garden, koi pond, wall of windows, I know,” Dan tells him. The warmth that rushes in his chest when he thinks about it is stupid, probably. They have a while yet before the dream house.

“Oh, a wall of windows, _yes_ , I love natural light, I’ve been saying to Martyn,” Cornelia agrees, and then she and Phil are off, talking about bay windows and cathedral ceilings and structural integrity. Dan closes his eyes and leans against Phil’s shoulder and enjoys the vibrations of Phil’s voice against his skull.

“They've been together as long as us, haven't they?” Dan asks when Phil rings off at last. “Your brother and Cornelia. 2010, was it?”

Phil nods and leans over to plug his phone in next to the couch. Dan takes a slow sip of wine and watches Phil’s shirt slip up as he stretches down.

“Yup,” Phil confirms. Then he tilts his head. “We should sit on the balcony.”

The balcony. It always slips Dan’s mind, somehow. This house is still so new. It's been years since he's been drunk on a balcony of his very own.

They stand up and their hands bump together. Dan slips his fingers through Phil’s and leads him out to the balcony. The two of them don't hold hands often - it's a difficult thing to explain away when you're trying to be ambiguous about the state of your relationship, so it's easier just to avoid it altogether. But Phil’s hand is cool and smooth and just slightly smaller than Dan’s, and it's nighttime and they're alone in their big new apartment with a balcony that can't be seen into from anywhere above or below.

So - Dan holds Phil’s hand and they sit down together outside, the night air warm and gentle, London buzzing always but so much quieter here than it was at the old house. Phil’s glass of wine is empty.

“D'you want another?” Dan asks, holding up the second bottle. Phil tilts his head, considering, then nods. Dan tops him off, then pours himself another, too.

Four glasses, then five. Lion Babe croons low from Phil’s face-down phone. Dan is feeling it now, heavy in his hands and legs and head. He and Phil still have their fingers linked.

“Nice to talk to Corndog earlier,” he murmurs. His mouth has ended up close to Phil’s ear, somehow, his nose nestled in Phil’s hair, breathing him in. Warmth. Home. “When will she finally propose to Martyn?”

Phil laughs and turns to kiss him, his face tilting up like he's asking. Dan answers, his face tilting down to meet him. Like breathing, in and out, over and over, a rhythm he’ll always know.

“We’ve talked about it,” Phil says when they slowly stop, his fingertips stroking absently over Dan’s knuckles. They glide from touching to talking so easily. “Me and Martyn, about marriage.” He pauses and sighs and rolls his head back against the wall. Dan watches the light shift across his profile and sinks into the small part of himself that still flutters when he sees Phil in vulnerable moments like this. “I think - well.” Phil looks over at Dan and smiles, his eyes crinkling, drunk and sleepy. “When they're ready. But they're happy, as it is. They aren't - aren't scared, you know.” His fingertips hook sweetly through Dan’s. Dan pulls Phil’s hand up to his mouth.

“‘M not either,” he says, and kisses the base of Phil’s thumb.

“No,” Phil agrees, and sighs again, and Dan watches him close his eyes and smile. Their linked hands drop gently back from Dan’s mouth to the floor. A siren wails distantly, far away, and somehow their little balcony feels as blissfully isolated as the bedroom back in Florida.  

“I was,” Phil adds. His eyes stay closed. Dan goes still inside of himself. “For a long time.”

“Scared?” Dan’s voice is small - he doesn't want to shatter this. He feels like a soap bubble, fragile and floating, iridescent in the moonlight here with Phil.

Phil nods. “Every day. But -” and he opens his eyes, and gives Dan a look saved just for moments like right now, “but now, I just love you.”

Dan’s throat is tight. When he laughs a little, it's raspy.

“You're so drunk,” he says, and swallows hard.

Phil shrugs and smiles and laughs a little, too, sloppy and sweet. “I'm not! I'm only a little bit - I’m quite drunk but I'm not _so_ drunk.”

“You are so, so drunk.”

Phil fumbles at first but his hands are cool against Dan’s face as he grabs him and leans in. The kiss is just a clumsy press of mouth to mouth at first but then Phil shifts a little and Dan sighs into it, parts his lips. He feels good, tired and lax and loose, his mind quiet and softly spinning, Phil hovering above him, kissing him like there's nothing else in the world that he'd rather do.

They pull apart after a few minutes, both of them gasping a little, the evening soft on their skin. Dan pushes his cupped hands to the back of Phil’s skull and leans forward so their foreheads touch.

“Oh,” Phil says. Dan huffs a laugh through his nose and asks, “what.”

“I _am_ so drunk,” Phil tells him, and flops heavily down onto the ground. His arm sprawls across Dan’s chest, solid and warm.

“Inside?” Dan asks. Phil nods, his nose rubbing against the front of Dan’s shirt. They stand up together and Phil leans most of his weight on Dan’s shoulder while Dan opens the balcony door.

The lights in the flat are all off except for the one in his bedroom, but Dan isn't quite so terrified of the dark in this house. There are more windows, so light shines through and he can always see into the corners. He leads Phil fearlessly down the dim hallway to bed - it helps, too, that he's the one in charge right now, the one whose head is spinning a little less.

Phil doesn't even bother with pyjamas, just lands in bed and curls up with his jeans still on, his eyes closed like they've been since the balcony.

“Cuddle me,” he says. Sleepy, petulant, drunk. Dan loves him.

“Cuddle me, let's get drunk, stay longer in Florida or I’ll miss you,” he teases as he pulls his shirt up over his head. “You are so needy.” Phil makes a face at him without opening his eyes.

“I could cuddle with anyone,” he says, and Dan laughs, and crawls into bed. He kisses the back of Phil’s neck, then the soft skin behind his ear.

“You could but you won't.”

Phil sighs and relaxes backwards into Dan’s chest. His body is warm and familiar and Dan leans his head forward so it rests between Phil’s shoulder blades.

He’ll fall asleep fast, like this. Aircon on but not too high, Phil breathing deep and slow in front of him, his body heavy and floating at the same time, somehow. It's good. He’s good. They're good.

They're ready.

 


End file.
